


King's Cross

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Wing!lock, Wingfic, first meeting a little differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets Sherlock at King's Cross.<br/>But Sherlock's got a secret.<br/>(Yeah, still rubbish at summaries)</p>
            </blockquote>





	King's Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Something a bit differently.  
> I needed wings so I wrote this a while back (long before S3 aired although there is nothing even remotely from any of the aired epis in it)  
> Just John and Sherlock. And Sarah. But that's it.  
> I know, the plot's a bit thin but there's porn to make up for that.  
> How does that sound? Good? Then go and read! 
> 
> As always: Thank you to Barawen for Britpick/Beta.

  
“Oh for fuck's sake!” 

The curse was loud and heartfelt and not few people turned their heads to see where it came from. 

The man bit his lips and smiled apologetically at a particularly indignant looking woman, holding a child by her hand. She glared at him before she turned to walk away. 

John Watson, known for curses much worse than the one he had just let out, almost grinned but as he looked after the tail-lights of the train that slowly pulled out of King's Cross, he groaned. 

This was the second time this week that he missed it due to the insane London traffic. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, fell on one of the seats at the platform and fished his mobile out of his pocket. 

Reluctantly he thumbed in his boss' number. 

“Good morning, John.”

“Sarah, morning. I...” he started.

She interrupted him coolly. 

“My dear John, if you're telling me that you're going to be late again, I will put you on weekend shifts for a month.” 

John sighed; he knew she would make him suffer. 

“I am so sorry. There was a delay at the tube and I couldn’t....” 

“John, please,” her calm voice became sharper, “we talked about this. You have this job only because you and I are friends, and I tolerate that you still need time to adjust but this is getting a bit out of hand.” 

John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I know, it won't happen again.” 

Actually, he knew it would happen again but he counted on their friendship and his ability to sweet-talk her out of it and he wasn’t too worried. 

He heard her sighing deeply on the other end - she knew that too but would let him – they had history and she was worried about him so she would let it slip. 

“John, why don’t you consider moving out here? Getting out of the city? The countryside would do you good, you know...” 

“No. Sarah, we've talked about this. No, I can't. Listen, I gotta go, see you in an hour. Bye.” 

John cut her off and slipped the phone back in his pocket. 

He fell back in the hard seat and closed his eyes for a moment. 

The sounds of the station surrounded him, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never leave this city. 

London was his home, his safe haven, his anchor in a world he no longer felt he belonged to. London was the only thing that kept him going – even though he couldn’t find a job here and had to travel 45 minutes to get to work every bloody day. 

Of course, it would be much better and more convenient, if he just moved to Cambridge, even though he knew that he could never afford it. Just another reason to stay in his beloved city. 

He huffed a deep breath and opened his eyes; better check when the next train was going to leave. 

He stood and strolled back to the time tables, secretly indulging in the busy and hectic morning at the station. 

He had always loved it here: King's Cross, London's biggest train station with thousands of people coming and going, with its history, and the silent promises every place like this held: onward to a journey, to new places, cities, even countries. 

John sighed softly. He too had arrived here a few months ago. Exhausted and wounded, both in pride and body, shot in the shoulder while serving his country. He didn’t know where else to go although he knew there was nothing here for him, only his sister and a small army pension. The first few weeks he spent – reluctantly – at Harry's place but soon he realised that he had to find his own flat. He had never got along well with her, and damn, he had tried. However, the break-up with her wife had broken her, made her aggressive and depressed all the same and John couldn’t stand to see her like that. 

He had looked for a flat he could afford and had finally – and with the help of an old friend – found a nice little place in central London. 

Finding work was a bit harder but when he ran into Sarah on a grey Saturday afternoon, things started to look better. 

They had chatted over a cup of coffee and as she had asked him, what he was about to do he now that he was back, he had just shrugged. He didn’t know. 

When she offered him a job, he had hesitated: they were friends, yes, nevertheless he wasn’t sure whether they should work together. They had history after all, and not only a pleasant one. 

But she convinced him to at least give it a try and the next Monday he had made the trip out out to Cambridge for the first time. 

That was three months ago and mostly it worked out okay; John was content, Sarah tried not to be too much of a mother-hen and John usually spent the weekends at home, watching telly. Once in a while he went out with Mike and some of his old friends. 

His life – even if not perfect – seemed to find its path back to normal. 

Secretly he knew there was something missing but he didn’t know what so he shrugged it off. No need to dwell over something he couldn’t change. 

*

Something out of the corner of his eye made him stop in his tracks and tore him out of his musings. He looked around, frowning, trying to find what had caught his attention. People were hurrying past, towards the exit, towards the platforms. Just another day at the station and yet John had the feeling something wasn’t quite right. 

Slowly he turned on his heels, scanning the entire place. 

There...what was that? 

A man, standing at the end of the platform, tall and motionless, almost hidden in the deep shadows. John shook his head the second his eyes fell on the man. 

Just another passenger, waiting for his train or somebody to pick up, waiting... 

Nah, a tiny voice in John's brain chimed in, he's not waiting, he's watching. 

Not only watching, observing. 

The almost forgotten soldier instinct kicked in; it was just a feeling in his guts, an itching in the back of his neck, nothing he could explain.

But the way the man stood there, too still, too calm, irked John. 

Slowly he walked over to the other side of the platform, pretending to read the timetables put up there. 

He glanced over. 

The man hadn't moved. He was standing there, back straight, hands clasped behind his back, the long black coat moving weakly in the gusts blowing over the platform. 

It took John three more minutes pretending to read the departure times of train 205 until it hit him: his eyes. They were constantly moving, flicking from one end of the platform to the other, never standing still – in complete contrast to the man's frozen posture. 

Even from his spot quite a bit away from him, John could see his eyes were alert and bright, almost liquid, like mercury, moving quickly yet steadily, noticing everything that was happening around them. 

Suddenly that piercing gaze landed on John and he could barely suppress the flinch that wanted to ripple through him as he made eye contact before he casually – don’t attract attention, Watson – turned away. 

John could almost feel the stranger's quicksilver stare on his back; it had something painfully physical to it. 

He kept staring at the timetables and as he eventually turned back, the dark figure was gone. 

John relaxed; he hadn’t realised how he had tensed up since he had felt that intense stare on him. 

He shook his head at himself. The war was over, at least for him, and yet he couldn’t shake old habits easily. He was home now, safe, no need to see danger at every turn. 

The rest of the time was spent watching people, hurrying about, until his train pulled into the station. 

John boarded and even found a window seat. He fell into it, smiling a little at his luck as his gaze fell on the platform again. 

He was back, that man with the bright eyes, and John sat up straight, staring out of the window. 

The train began to move, and the last thing John could see was a quick smirk flashing over the face of the stranger before he was out of sight. 

John leaned back in his seat, blind for the view outside the window, deep in thoughts. 

Something about that calm watching – observing, Watson, he wasn’t just watching – irritated John although he couldn’t really put his finger on it. There was nothing wrong with people watching, not on a busy train station. Hell, John himself did it every time he was there or at the airport and yet... something didn't feel quite right.

His mobile chirped in his pocket and it tore him out of his thoughts. 

Sighing he answered the call and soon the mysterious stranger was forgotten. 

*

Over the next few days John looked out for the the man but he didn’t see him again. 

He tried to forget him but there had been something about him that caused a stir deep inside him he couldn’t get rid off. 

*

Friday night. 

John finally got back into London after spending the better part of two hours on the tracks. 

Engine failure. 

It had taken ages to get the train running again. Now he was tired, freezing and his shoulder was hurting. He was looking forward to a long hot bath to ring in the weekend. He might even call Mike later. They hadn’t talked in weeks and John felt miserable about that. 

He shuffled along the platform, trying to relax his stiff shoulder when he bumped into someone. 

“Sorry mate,” he murmured without looking up. 

“Good evening, Doctor.” 

John's head flew up at the sound of those three words, spoken lowly but so clear they rung back in his head. 

But he couldn’t see anyone. The station was quite empty. Only a few people headed to the exit. John whirled around, checking the platform and then he saw him. 

There, in the shadows, the outline of a black, oddly familiar coat, disappearing around the corner. 

“Hey,” John called out, walking quickly after it but as he rounded the corner there was nobody. 

Only a small passage and a staff door at the end. 

John stared at the door for several moments before he slowly approached it and, shaking his head slightly at himself, he tried the door knob. 

To his big surprise it easily gave way and he pushed the door open. 

He threw a brief glance around before curiosity got the better of him. 

“Hello?” he asked as he entered what looked like a poorly lit storage room. 

John hesitated; this was utterly bonkers. He was about to follow a perfect stranger god-knows-where. Hell, we wasn’t even sure it washim. But something was tugging on him, a strong pull he couldn’t resist, and so it took only a few moments of arguing with the rational part of his brain before he took a step into the dark. 

“Well, that is surprising isn’t it?” 

John jumped at the dark voice, coming somewhere from his right. 

He spun around, instinctively getting into combat mode; arms raised, hands curled into fists, feet firmly on the ground. 

“Ah, not only a doctor but a soldier as well.” 

There was silence as the man stepped out of the shadows, eyeing John calmly. 

Every single nerve in John's body was yelling 'danger' but there was something about the way he looked at John, intense and piercing, almost knowing, that had him breathe a little lighter. 

Nevertheless he narrowed his eyes as the stranger circled John, completely ignoring personal space. 

He slowly rounded him before he stopped in front of him, those fascinating eyes now completely focused on John's face. 

“Ex-soldier then,” he said casually, as if picking up a conversation John wasn’t aware they’d ever had, “Shoulder injury...” 

John was sure he heard the slightest hint of a question mark after that and before he could stop himself he nodded. 

A quick smile flickered over the oddly handsome face and lit up those mystical eyes. 

And just like that John relaxed, lowered his arms and took a deep breath. 

They looked at each other, not moving before John huffed out a laugh and took a step back. 

“This is bloody ridiculous,” John said, still smiling. 

“One could say so,” was the calm reply. 

“Who the hell are you? And more importantly, how the fuck do you know who I am?” John asked, curiosity again ruling out the utter absurdity of the situation. 

“Ex-army soldier, recently invalided home after your injury. Struggling to find a way back to normal life. Every morning you take the train to Cambridge, returning in the evening. You love London but can't actually afford to live here and yet you try.” 

John was gaping at him, struck speechless by his words. 

“How...how do you know that??” he asked eventually. 

“I observe,” the man said coolly. 

“Me?” John asked. 

The man watched him and John had to suppress a shiver at the intensity of his gaze. 

“You caught my attention.” 

John's eyes almost jumped out of his head. 

“Pardon?” 

He shrugged. 

“You noticed me.” 

John frowned; what the hell was that supposed to mean? 

“I … what?” 

“You saw me, you noticed. That's more than people normally do.” 

John was confused. He stared at the man but only got a stare back, somewhat of a challenge in it. 

Seconds stretched into minutes; neither man said anything. 

Suddenly John realised how tired he was and he slumped into himself. 

The other man quirked half a grin at him and nodded his head towards the door. 

“Go on then.” 

Still confused but too exhausted to argue John slowly walked to the door, back onto the platform. 

To his surprise the man was walking beside him, hands again clasped behind his back, accompanying John like a shadow. 

“So...” John asked to break the silence between them,”are you working here?” 

The stranger chuckled softly and that sound made John shudder with delight. It was like nothing he had ever heard before: barely audible, more vibration in the air between them than an actual sound. And yet it was deep and bone-crushingly rich – it was beautiful. It made John's hair stand on end and heat coil deep in his stomach. 

“I wouldn’t call it working,” was the answer, the smile still audible in his voice. 

John tried to process that answer but he couldn’t think straight. He wasn’t sure whether it was fatigue or the extraordinary being by his side; so he let it slide, it wasn’t really important, was it? 

They walked in silence and oddly it felt...good to John, amiable, kind of pleasant even, as if they'd known each other for years. 

As they reached the exit, the man stopped. 

“Good night, Doctor.” 

John stopped dead in his tracks, torn out of his thoughts. He was considering whether to take a cab home – no way he was going to take the tube now, he was too tired. 

“Huh.. oh.. yes. Good night.” 

He hesitated. There was something in the way the man stood there, hands in his pockets that had him take another look. The man looked...lost... lonely. 

On a whim he turned around and held out his hand. 

“Watson, John Watson.” 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the other one said, nodding sharply but ignoring John's hand. 

“Well...” John stuffed his hands in his pockets, “ it was nice meeting you. See you around?” 

“I’m certain of that, Doctor Watson.” 

And with that said, he turned and walked back the way they had come.

John watched him until the shadows swallowed him. 

He shook his head. 

What a strange day. 

John pulled his jacket closer and walked out in the rain, hailing the first cab he saw. 

Once in the cab, he leaned back into the seat and watched the nightly London pass outside the window: black and wet, lights shimmering yellow and white through the downpour. 

And again he realised how much he loved this city; he would never be able to leave. 

London's lights, the low humming of the car's engine and the soft sound of the rain outside lulled him in and the cabbie had to shake him awake. 

He paid the man and stumbled onto the pavement, searching for his keys. 

Opening the front door, his neck started prickling. 

Eyes on him, watching. 

John swirled around, searching the dark and empty street, for some reason expecting to find a pair of quicksilver eyes on him but of course there was nobody. 

Shaking his head to himself, he muttered: 

“You need sleep, Watson,” 

He looked down the street one last time before opening the door and stepping inside. 

*

John wandered into the station, trying to ignore his fluttering heart . 

He wasn’t nervous, hell no. 

And he didn’t get up fairly early to be at the station about an hour before his usual time, nah. 

And naturally he didn’t scan the place the second he stepped foot in it, searching the faces of the morning commuters for that one familiar one. 

Of course not. 

He bought his ticket and ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair before he walked onto the platform. 

His attention was instantly drawn to the spot where he had last seen the stranger – Sherlock, he reminded himself with a smile, what a curious name . 

Nothing, only an old man, reading a newspaper. 

John let his gaze wander over the entire platform but besides the usual business of a Monday morning he didn’t see anything. 

No tall figure, lurking in the shadows, watching. 

He tried to not be disappointed and deliberately ignored the knot in his stomach. 

He sat down on a bench, staring onto the tracks. 

“Good morning, Doctor Watson. You are early today.” 

John flinched. 

There he was, sitting beside him, the long legs stretched out in front of him, hands in the pockets of that grand coat. 

“Uhh...morning. Just wanted to make sure, I wouldn’t be late. My boss is pretty, uhm, well, she would rip my head off if I was to be late again.” 

John bit his lip; since when did he stammer like that? 

He could feel the other man's stare on him and he was sure he heard an amused huff at his poor lie. 

He glanced over to Sherlock, who was watching the passing people. 

There was the hint of a smirk playing over his lips though and John had to force himself to look away. 

God dammit, what was it with this man that made him feel like a teenager with a crush?

“So,” he said, fiddling with his bag, “what are you doing here? You never told me.” 

“Walk with me,” Sherlock said and stood, strolling down the platform. 

John stared after him, baffled but quickly he jumped to his feet and followed. 

“What..?” he asked, a little out of breath as he caught up with the man's long strides. 

“What do you see?” 

“What??” 

John heard another huff, this time it was clearly an annoyed one. He wondered briefly since when could he distinguish that, especially with a stranger, when Sherlock suddenly stopped and held up a hand to stop John as well. 

“Look around and tell me what you see,” he said sharply. 

John bit back another “what?” that was on his lip. This morning was getting stranger by the minute. 

He straightened his back and looked around. 

People, was his first thought, however, he was certain that this was not what Sherlock had meant. 

“Uhm,” he muttered awkwardly, trying to think of something to say but another impatient sound from his side made him look up. 

“You see but you don’t observe,” Sherlock grumbled and nodded his head toward a woman, standing at the end of the platform. 

“Do you see her?” 

John narrowed his eyes; a woman in her thirties, copper hair, wearing a green coat that clashed terribly with her hair colour. She was bouncing a little on her heels, a mobile in her hand, apparently talking to somebody on the other end.

“Yes but...” 

“She seems to be waiting for somebody, yes? Excitedly so, judging from her restlessness and the look on her face, yes? Wrong. She is awaiting the arrival of her mother in law with whom she had a rather harsh dispute last week. Her husband, she is talking right now, is trying to convince her to be nice to her to avoid disinheritance.” 

A disapproving look flickered over Sherlock's face as he said that.

John realised that his mouth was hanging open and he closed it. 

“Wha...how...How do you know all that? Have you been following her?” 

And in an afterthought, he added: 

“Who the hell are you?” 

Sherlock threw John a quick glance and shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I observe,” he said, “and I listen...” 

He frowned, and John was pretty sure he was about to say something else but the man remained silent. 

A train pulled into the station, drowning out every other noises. 

Wordlessly both men watched people leave the carriages. 

A small woman with expensive looking clothes and a hard expression on her face approached the one they had been talking about. 

John could see the forced smile on the younger one's face and as they walked past them, he could hear the shrill voice of the older. 

“...I told you to not go there, Tiffany, didn't I? Now you have to live with the consequences...” 

“Yes, mother, I know and I am terribly sorry...” 

Defeated and beaten. 

Their voices faded as they walked past and John watched them disappear through the exit. 

John shook his head and turned back to Sherlock. 

“How do you do that? That was fantastic, how did you know?” he asked, not able to keep the amazement out of his voice. 

He saw the faintest look of surprise flicker over Sherlock's face before he shrugged, a tiny smile lingering over his lips. 

“That is not what people normally say.” 

John frowned. 

“What do people normally say?” 

“Piss off.” 

John felt something tug on his heart at the calm statement. 

He searched the man's face and their eyes locked, blue meeting silver, and suddenly they both grinned. 

It was strange and irrational and he wouldn’t be able to explain it but as they stood there, in a busy train station in the grey morning light, John felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders, one he wasn’t even aware of. 

They walked back to the bench and sat down. 

They didn’t talk, just sat there in silence, watching the busy people around them. 

As John's train arrived he sighed and stood up. 

“Off to work, then,” he murmured, not really willing to leave the other man. 

“Have a good day, Doctor.” 

John smiled at Sherlock.

“Thanks. You too.” 

He took his bag and reluctantly stepped towards the train before he turned back to Sherlock. 

“See you tonight?” he asked sheepishly, feeling a blush creep over his face. 

The man was still sitting on their bench but he smiled at John and nodded. 

Good Lord, Watson, he thought, as he grinned back and climbed into the carriage, you act like a bloody teenager with a crush. But the thought of seeing Sherlock again warmed his heart and the image of the smile the man gave him, as short as it has been, would accompany John throughout his entire day. 

*

It became a habit of the two men: meeting in the mornings and the evenings. 

John always left home a bit earlier so he could spend the spare hour with Sherlock. 

Not to mention that Sarah was very happy about John now always being on time. 

First John was worried about the evenings: there was no way of arriving at a specific time, the surgery had an emergency unit and often enough he left late or missed a train back home or the train was late; it was ridiculous how often shit happened on the tracks and delayed the arrival or departure. 

But Sherlock was always there, waiting for him, no matter what time he got there. 

Usually they sat on 'their' bench on the platform, talking: about John's day, about the people Sherlock had seen over the day, all the little dramas that happen in a train station on a daily basis. 

They seemed so trivial and dull to Sherlock but John loved his stories. 

John had tried to find out what exactly Sherlock was doing there every day but every time he started that topic, Sherlock's features tensed up and he fell silent, almost brooding; usually he left shortly after. 

John stopped asking. 

Sometimes they just sat there in silence, enjoying each other's company. 

And even though John had so many questions about Sherlock, he kept them to himself. They never talked about him, only about John. 

Soon Sherlock knew John's whole life story, partly from what he was telling him, partly from what Sherlock was deducing. 

It always astounded John how much the man could read from just his behaviour, his outfit or just the way he said hello. 

Secretly he tried to use Sherlock's methods although he never really succeeded. 

But he never failed to admire the man's ability, in his head and loudly to Sherlock himself. And no matter how hard his day had been, everything felt a little better when his praise made those bright eyes light up even more. 

Soon he realised he was hopelessly falling for the man, living for the sight of him, standing there at the station, patiently waiting for him. He couldn’t wait to leave the house or the surgery to get back to King's Cross, couldn’t wait for one of those rare smiles that made the skin around Sherlock's eyes crinkle and John's heart speed up. 

Sherlock was gorgeous. 

John rarely thought about men that way. He was a ladies man but once in a while man caught his attention. Not often enough to define himself as gay but John had never felt the need to label his sexuality. The heart wants what the heart wants, and John lived by that, not caring whether it was male or female. 

Though he had to admit that Sherlock wasn’t like anybody else. He stood out in an ordinary crowd. Not only his height or the way he kept himself straight. He had some kind of untouchable aura that kept people away from him; in all their time, he was never approached, never bumped into, never talked to.

John himself had to fight off several attempts of begging and plain rudeness, but people never bothered Sherlock. 

There must be something to that tall, slender man with his pale skin and his dark hair, that kept everybody at bay. 

Perhaps it was that steel look, the bright, all seeing, mysterious eyes. 

John had spent several hours trying to figure out their colour: some days they seemed to be blue like a bright summer sky over London, 

Some days, usually in the evenings, they were almost glowing in a bright green colour, which reminded John of emeralds in sunlight. 

He had given up on trying to pinpoint their colour after a while but they never ceased to amaze him. 

Sherlock's hair was something else entirely but nonetheless fascinating to John. 

Some days John had to actually sit on his hands to not bury them in those glossy, dark curls. He imagined it though, many many times, running his fingers through those strands. They would be soft and silky, curling over his wrists like a living thing, black against his own light skin. 

Often he lay in bed, wondering how the hell he fell for a perfect stranger, somebody he knew nothing about... not his life, his work or his family. 

And yet, it wasn’t really important to him. 

Sherlock was the one fixed point in his life, brightening his days and even helped to make his nights better: since he had met him, the nightmares about the war had slowly vanished, replaced by dreams of his dark-haired, bright-eyed stranger. 

When the alarm went off in the morning, he woke with a smile on his face, knowing Sherlock would be waiting for him like he always did. 

*

On a dark, cold Wednesday morning John had finally worked up the courage to ask Sherlock out for a date. 

Drinks and candles, all the romantic stuff people tend to do. 

The thing was, John wasn’t sure how his ambitions would come over with Sherlock. 

They had never talked about their love lives, partners or anything like that, and John wasn’t even sure Sherlock would be interested in him at all. 

Sherlock had never said or done anything that could be particularly inviting and yet John had the feeling there was some sort of connection, an odd sense of gravity towards each other. 

As he got dressed he was wondering about that. 

How was it possible to feel so comfortable, so at ease with somebody he didn’t know anything about? 

John wasn’t a particularly trusting person, never had been. He was open and friendly but he always needed time to warm up to strangers, always kept rather to himself until he knew the person better. 

But Sherlock was different.

Around him John was himself, let himself and all his boundaries go, didn’t hide anything. 

Well, almost anything, he thought with a smile as he left his flat and walked to the tube station. 

Sherlock could see through any lie, John had learned that quite quickly – Sherlock simply knew when he wasn’t telling the truth. 

But John suspected the man for being blind to the matters of the heart; emotions didn’t seem to be something he paid much attention to. 

Deep in thoughts and a tiny bit nervous he made his way to King's Cross. 

But as he arrived he found the station closed – every single entrance was shut down and police was shooing everybody away. 

“What's happening?” he asked one of them. 

“Nothing,” the man growled, “just a drill.” 

John raised an eyebrow at the man but retreated. Nevertheless he was watching the activity sharply from the edge of the station's courtyard. 

John had seen this before: the silent but intense tension in the air, the efficiency of the police, the short word exchanges. 

Drill, my ass, he thought as he saw a bunch of officers gather at one entrance before they disappeared around the corner, quickly followed by the K-9 Unit. 

Bomb, was the first thing that crossed John's mind and panic reared its ugly head for a second. 

Sherlock. 

The man practically lived in that station and John was sure, he hadn’t left when they evacuated the place. He knew all the non public places, knew all the staff closets and the hidden corridors. 

Fuck. 

John quickly considered to tell one of the officers who guarded the station but just as quickly rejected that thought: they wouldn’t listen. 

And even if, they wouldn’t be able to find him. 

John could. 

He slowly walked over the courtyard, looking around innocently while his heart was pounding. 

He stopped at the small alley leading to the delivery entrances for the shops in the station. 

Glancing around, he slipped out of sight and ran down the alley till he came to the first door. 

He tested the handle; shocked that it was open and unguarded he sneaked inside. 

Taking a deep breath John made his way and hid in dark corners to avoid all the police the place was crawling with until he finally made it to his usual platform. 

The police seemed to concentrate on another one and so he slid from one blind spot to the next, always looking for Sherlock. 

He eventually found him by that staff room where they had first met. 

He stood in the dark, the only thing moving his eyes, curiously watching the officers turn over bins and yell commands at each other. 

“Good morning, John,” he said casually as John stopped dead beside him, breath coming in ragged puffs. 

“Are you fucking nuts? What the hell are you still doing in here? Didn’t you get evacuated?” 

Sherlock looked over to John, head cocked and eyes twinkling. 

“Why? They suspect a bomb in one of the bins. What an interesting morning,” Sherlock replied calmly, leaning against the wall. A soft smile played over his lips. The sun fell through one of the roof panels, illuminating one half of his face and John lost track of his thoughts. 

Good god, the man was beautiful. 

Instantly he scolded himself and grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's ever present coat... or he thought he did. 

Sherlock had shifted, just a little and John's hands closed around nothing. 

He groaned frustrated.

“Sherlock , please, we have to get the hell out of here. If there's really a bomb, we...” 

“There isn’t one, John. They have false information. They will find out soon, I’m afraid.” 

He looked almost disappointed at that and John exploded.

“Are you fucking kidding me?? You can't know that. What if you're wrong? What if that bloody bomb explodes? It'll kill you”

John didn’t raise his voice but his last words were rather hissed sharply and he clenched his fist hard, digging his fingernails into his palms to not punch the man. 

Sherlock turned his attention – his full attention – on John, his gaze hard and cold. 

“I am not wrong.” 

John stared at him. 

“What? You can't be fucking serious, Sherlock?” 

“John, please, keep your voice down. You don’t want to get arrested for trespassing, do you?” 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and motioned for John to follow him. 

Despite the anger boiling under the surface, he did. 

They entered the staff room and John closed the door behind them, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. 

“Sherlock, we need to get the fuck out of here” 

“John, if you listened to me, you would know that there is no bomb. It was a faux call. They will only find an empty backpack. There are no explosives in it.” 

John slumped against the wall, rubbing a hand over his face, closing his eyes. 

“How can you know? Have you seen it?” he asked weakly. 

There was a moment of silence and John blinked one eye open. 

“Yes.” 

John instantly knew that Sherlock was lying. He didn’t know why, he just knew. 

“Liar.” 

For a second Sherlock looked surprised and for a second John cherished this moment; it was so rare that he was able to catch Sherlock off guard or even surprise him. 

Sherlock's eyes went wide before he caught himself and sneered at John. 

“Nobody has ever called me a liar,” he growled, having John swallow hard at the deadly coldness in his tone. 

John straightened his back. 

“Well,” he shot back, glaring too now, “perhaps having your life at stake confused your perception of truth a little.” 

“My what?” 

“Your life, Sherlock.” 

“Oh, that.” 

John closed his eyes again, counting to five in his head before he had himself back under control.

“Yes, that,” he said through gritted teeth, opening his eyes again. 

“Dull,” Sherlock waved a hand trough the air dismissively. 

“For you perhaps, not for...” John bit his lip and blushed. 

Sherlock whirled around, that hard stare chasing a shiver through John. 

“For whom?” Sherlock prompted lowly but his eyes were blazing a cold fire. 

John sighed; in for a penny. 

“For me, Sherlock,” he uttered, his sleeves suddenly more interesting than anything else, “your life... you are important... to me...” 

Silence fell. 

And stretched endlessly, neither man saying a word. 

John could hear voices outside their refuge but he didn’t pay them much attention. 

His heart was beating too fast in his chest and his cheeks were burning. 

Nervously he glimpsed up at Sherlock just to find him standing right in front of him; he hadn't heard him move. He gasped in surprise. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock demanded, his voice soft and gentle and John did. 

“What do you see?” Sherlock asked, taking a small step back. 

John frowned; what was this about? But Sherlock’s stoic face and his presenting posture – arms held a bit away from his body, back straight and chin resolutely shoved forward – didn’t leave much doubt what he wanted. 

John cleared his throat. 

“Uhm... well, I see you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t state the obvious, John. You know my methods, apply them.” 

John let his eyes slide over the other man. 

Black suit – Sherlock always wore suits – a crisp white shirt, black shoes without a scratch.

Woollen black coat, warm and thick, leather gloves peaking out of one pocket and, as if to accidentally add some colour, a blue scarf. 

Tall and proud, head held high. 

A corona of dark curly hair surrounded his head, enhancing the paleness of his skin and made his eyes stand out perfectly. 

High cheekbones, looking as if carved from marble, sharp and angular. 

A strong nose and an equally strong chin. 

Neck, long and oddly vulnerable, dotted with freckles. 

Ethereal. 

Gorgeous. 

Beautiful. 

Those were the words that came to John's mind first and only the briefest of smiles playing over Sherlock's lips made John realise that he had not just thought it.

“You know you do that out loud?” 

Sherlock's voice was low, but it made John jump as if he had yelled at him.

He blushed and tried to look away; the deep chuckle made him look up again. 

“Of course I know, John. I always know. Especially when it comes to myself. I also know that you wanted to ask me out today...” 

The smile slowly vanished from his face and a deep sadness took over. 

John's heart clenched. 

“Sherlock...” he murmured, reaching out instinctively. 

“Don't!” 

“But..” John got more confused by the second. 

“Oh John...” 

“Sherlock, you're scaring me a little here,” John said, taking a step closer only to see Sherlock taking another step back. 

“I have to tell you something...I... just don’t know... how.” 

Sherlock was stuttering; John had never seen him like this, confused and lost for words. 

“Just tell me,” John pleaded, feeling helpless seeing his usually so very eloquent friend like this. 

“I'd rather show you. Close your eyes...” and as it was an afterthought, “please?” 

John did as requested: he shut his eyes, trying to relax. 

He could still hear the police outside, could hear Sherlock's breathing, could smell dust and oil. 

He stood still, waiting patiently. 

Suddenly there was a loud rustle, a gust of warm air caressed his face and all of a sudden the scent of something sharp filled John's nose. 

He heard Sherlock take a deep breath and: 

“Open your eyes.” 

John blinked them open and at first he didn’t see anything different. 

But then Sherlock took a step forward, out of the shadows and John's hands flew to his mouth, muffling a cry. 

He stared, his mind couldn’t process what he saw. 

He screwed his eyes shut again, breathing heavily through his nose before he carefully looked again. 

They were still there, black as the rest of Sherlock's clothes and glossy like his hair, the tips moving gently in an invisible wind. 

“What the...?” John sputtered, reaching out, and stopping himself almost instantly. 

Sherlock stood still, his eyes huge and somewhat pleading, waiting for John to say something. 

“Wings...” John murmured, more to himself than to Sherlock. 

“I am dreaming, am I?” he asked, “I fell and hit my head and now I am seeing things, right? Cause this can't... can't...” 

His voice faded away and he kept gaping. He rubbed his eyes, blinked again and again but they remained firmly in place: huge black wings, shimmering in the twilight, as if they were alive. 

“No John, you are not dreaming.” 

John tore his eyes away from the wings and looked at Sherlock's face, shocked at the incredible sadness he saw there. 

A rustle, a twirl in the air and then it was, once again, just Sherlock standing in front of him. 

“I am dead.” 

Three words that cut straight through John's heart, tearing it apart and leaving it bleeding. 

John's mind was still racing, trying to process what he had just seen. 

He gasped in shock and slumped back against the wall, his legs not longer supporting him. 

He slid to the ground, trying to breathe but only managed to pant loudly. 

Sherlock carefully came closer and sank elegantly to the floor, crossing his legs to sit before John, never taking his eyes off of him. 

“I died three years ago in this very station. Pushed in front of an oncoming train no less. I perished right there on the tracks. I came to, wandering over the platform, clueless as to what happened. It took a while for me to realise...” 

He grumbled a bit, still clearly irritated about it having taken so long for him to work it out. 

“People couldn't see me. And despite the fact that doors and walls aren't a hindrance for me, for some reason I cannot leave this station. I am imprisoned in this very place, bound without chains. Invisible, untouchable... an angel without its heaven.” 

John listened with closed eyes, desperately trying to make sense of it all. 

“But.. I talked ... I am talking to you, I can see you... I fucking touched you...” 

“You ran into me because I wanted you to. I can take physical form if I want to but it takes huge efforts...usually not worth making.” 

“But I see you... I saw you standing there, watching...” 

John looked at Sherlock who shrugged. 

“I don’t know how or why. It had never happened before. Children can sometimes see me but adults never have.” 

John swallowed hard at the rigid bitterness of his words. 

“So you decided to... what? Bump into me? Find out why the ordinary doctor could see you?” he asked. 

Sherlock nodded. 

“Yes. I recognised you, have seen you before but after you so obviously noticed me I had to see if there was more to that. Call it an experiment.” 

John raised an eyebrow at him, feeling a bit put out. 

Sherlock noticed it and shrugged. 

“First it was one. Experiment, I mean,“ he cleared up as he saw John's scowl, “but after a while... well, I enjoyed your company, too.” 

John couldn’t suppress the brief smile tugging on his mouth. 

“And then?” John prompted. 

“Well, you know what happened. Actually... “ Sherlock hesitated again and searched John's eyes. 

“Normally I have to concentrate hard to become corporal but with you... it wasn’t difficult at all.” 

“So I am ... special?” John asked, an unbelieving tone in his voice. 

“It seems so.” 

That simple statement made John avert his eyes. 

His thoughts were tumbling around in his head, he couldn’t think straight. 

He looked back at Sherlock who was still sitting motionless in front of him, patiently letting John get used to this. 

John reached out, ignoring the panic in his head, and oh so carefully laid a hand on Sherlock's cheek. 

He half expected it to float through him but his palm connected with cool solid skin. 

Both men froze and John gasped. 

“Are you doing this right now?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Sherlock whispered, wonder lacing his voice as he leaned into the touch, just fractionally but John's heart stuttered in his chest. 

Sherlock's eyes widened and locked with John's, who had never seen anything more beautiful than Sherlock at this very moment.

The air between them suddenly felt electric, too thick to breathe, and he didn’t dare to move. 

“John...” 

It was hushed and heart wrenchingly soft in the small space between them. Just one word and yet it carried so much more meaning in it. 

John didn’t think, he just reacted as he leaned forward, closing the gap between them. 

Their lips met between two heartbeats, careful and hesitant, just a brush of skin against skin. 

Sherlock instantly pulled back and for a moment John feared he had done something terribly stupid. 

But Sherlock raised a hand himself, cupping John's face gently. His thumb stroked his cheek absently while he was looking John deep in the eyes. 

“Astonishing,” he murmured and before John could ask what was, Sherlock had closed the distance between them, kissing him again. 

John moaned into the kiss, his hands finding their way into Sherlock's hair. 

Finally he was touching, feeling, running his fingers through the soft curls; they felt exactly like he had imagined so many times. 

He felt Sherlock's smile against his lips; of course that bastard knew about that too. 

He gripped harder, pressed himself against that long lean body and deepened the kiss. 

His heart skipped a few beats as Sherlock groaned, a low rumbling sound, that had John shiver from head to toe with its roughness. 

He teased the soft flesh between his lips, carefully nibbled on Sherlock's lower lip and now it was Sherlock's turn to shudder. 

With another soft groan John opened his mouth, and then there was Sherlock's tongue, meeting his with eagerness. 

John's entire body was shaking at the feeling of Sherlock in his arms, wonderfully solid and strong, his muscles vibrating against his own body. 

“Hey, here's another. Get it open.” 

The voice came from the other side of the closed door, loud and nearby. 

John stiffened, wanting to pull back but Sherlock didn’t let go. 

“Shhh,” he murmured against John burning lips, “they can't find us. Kiss me again.” 

And despite everything John ignored the sound of a key in the lock and kissed Sherlock again, losing himself in the moment.

He heard a faint rustle and then cool feathers brushed over his back, over the bare skin of his neck, and he smiled. 

He broke the kiss for a moment to see: Sherlock, kneeling in front of him, eyes closed, a dreamy smile dancing over his slightly bruised lips, the massive wings folded around them both, enveloping them in a dark cocoon. 

“See,” Sherlock whispered, blinking slowly at John,”nobody can see us now.” 

“Fantastic,” John breathed before sealing his lips back over Sherlock's, forgetting everything around them. Sherlock's mouth, pliant and willing against his own was all he needed. 

Faintly John noticed that the door was being opened but Sherlock's fingers running through his hair, caressing the sensitive skin on his neck had him ignore it all. 

When they broke the kiss, panting and flushed, the room was empty again, the door closed and John chuckled lowly. 

“Useful skill that.” 

Sherlock laughed gently, his chest rumbling against John's and John involuntarily arched against him at the beauty of that sound. 

“Good Lord, Sherlock, you'll be the death of me with that laugh.” 

Suddenly Sherlock was gone and John fell against the wall, a coldness washing over him that took his breath away. 

“Don’t you say that. Don’t say...” 

Sherlock was pacing up and down the room, his wings folded against his back, the tips sliding over the dirty ground. He was murmuring to himself, clearly infuriated and John suddenly realised what he had said. 

“Oh god, I am sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t...” 

He stumbled to his feet, reaching out for the other man and stopped him in his tracks. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “I am sorry, okay? I didn’t think.” 

Sherlock remained stiff and still but as John wrapped his arms around his neck, he relaxed a little. 

“I am sorry...” John muttered again, sliding his fingers up and into Sherlock's hair, combing gently through it. 

He could do this all day, the feeling of the cool curls against his warm skin was intoxicating. 

Sherlock leaned into his touch, his lids closed and John was sure if he kept going the other man would start to purr. 

“It's been ages since anybody has touched me like this,” he said, answering John's unspoken thoughts. 

John choked and pulled him close against his chest, wordlessly wanting to comfort him. 

Sherlock's arms sneaked around John's waist, holding just as tight. 

Eventually John let go and took a step back, his hands searching for Sherlock's who gave them willingly. Holding onto each other they stood silent for a moment before John asked:

“What do we do now?” 

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Have you ever tried to leave the station?” 

Sherlock nodded. 

“Several times. It is like an invisible wall I can't get past. I tried every single exit, the public ones and the hidden ones. I cannot leave.” 

“Fuck.” 

The sound of John's mobile going off made both men jump. 

“Oh Jesus, that's Sarah.” 

John reached for his phone.

“Yes, hi Sarah, yes I know. There was a drill at King's Cross, everything's closed. They won't tell us..,yes, I am fine, don’t worry. Oh, actually, yes that would be wonderful. You're an angel, Sarah, thank you. Yes, I'll call... ta.” 

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. 

“Sarah gave me the day off, she heard something about the closing from a patient...Sherlock, you okay??” 

John stopped his ramblings as he saw Sherlock sway and rushed over to steady him. 

He was cold, colder than before and panting heavily. 

“Sherlock. What is it, what's happening??” 

John's voice rose in panic but Sherlock waved a hand at him. 

“Nothing, I just need to rest.” He let out a bitter laugh, but as John scowled at him he tried to smile. 

“I may be dead, John, but walking around here tires me. Normally I rest when you are at work...” 

“Ohh...” 

“It's okay, I just... need to sit down...” 

Sherlock stumbled back against the wall, sinking down against it.

John cringed inwardly as he heard the wings scrape over the rough concrete; a few single feathers floated to the ground. 

“What can I do?” John asked, crouching in front of Sherlock, his hands fluttering around him, not sure whether or not he was allowed to touch again. 

“Nothing.” 

Sherlock leaned his head back and took a few breaths, his chest heaving as he inhaled deeply. 

John watched him a moment before it struck him. 

“You are breathing!” 

Immediately he clamped a hand over his mouth. 

Sherlock huffed a laugh that turned into a groan. 

“Yes, John, I am breathing.” 

John lowered his hand as curiosity prevailed.

“Sorry, yes but you said.. you...well, you...” 

John blushed, not knowing how to end the sentence without distressing Sherlock even more. 

“But I am dead?” he prompted, “so why am I breathing?” 

John nodded swiftly. 

“Because, my dear John, that's what people do, don’t they? Breathe and eat and sleep, all those things the living do. I don’t need to, I don’t need sleep or food, not like you. The breathing, well, it would have seemed weird to you if I wouldn’t have. It's something so trivial, so tedious, people barely notice it. Unless you don’t do it. And I got used to it. It... it keeps me grounded somehow...” 

Another one of those bitter laughs that felt like a burning knife in John's heart. 

Sherlock's eyes closed, his entire body slumped further against the wall. 

“As for the resting,” he murmured, “I don’t sleep but I need to accumulate strength for...” the words faded away and suddenly all his muscles relaxed. 

He slid to one side and John jumped forward to keep him from hitting his head to the ground. 

“Thank you, John.” 

It was just hushed and very quiet but John heard it. 

He wanted to answer when suddenly Sherlock's entire form started to glow. 

Just lightly, only a soft white shimmer around him, yet still illuminating the entire room. 

Although shock and awe had John freeze completely, he didn’t ease his steady grip around the other man. 

Stunned he watched as the glow brightened, surrounding Sherlock's body like an aura. 

As the light crept over John's own hands,resting on Sherlock's shoulders, a sudden joy filled his heart and he laughed out loud. 

Amazed he watched as the glow spread out over his arms, his shoulders until he was also enveloped in the white glimmer. 

It was warm and soothing and John had never felt as carefree as in this very moment. 

His gaze returned to Sherlock's face, vulnerable and soft in his unconsciousness, ageless and beautiful. 

John's heart threatened to overflow with emotions and it took a few moments for him to realise that he was crying. 

“What the hell,” he whispered into the room, not knowing what to do. 

The aura around them both quivered and pulsed, and John noticed that it was counterpointing his own heartbeat. 

Thud, thud, thud. 

It was a constant ebb and flow, like a breathing creature; its was hypnotising. 

John's lids became heavy and before he toppled over, he slid next to Sherlock, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. 

He leaned against him and the last thing he remembered was a tingling in his ears like a tiny bell. 

*

John woke with a start, panting harshly, feeling sweat running down his back. 

He jerked up, not knowing where he was. 

It took a moment until he realised that he was at home. 

How the hell did he get here? The last thing he remembered, he was at King's Cross and now he was here? How? 

He looked around. Yes, this was his sitting room and he was currently laying on his sofa. 

A soft sound had him spin around and his eyes almost jumped out of his head. 

Curled up into a ball, knees almost under his chin and arms slung tightly around them, was Sherlock. He was laying at the end of the sofa, eyes closed, his hair a wild mess of dark curls, falling into his face. 

John pinched himself; this couldn’t be. 

Not only was he was currently laying on his bloody sofa as if it this the most normal thing in the world but how could Sherlock be here as well? 

Didn’t he just say, he wasn’t able to leave the station?

Slowly John reached out and hesitantly put a hand on the man's ankle.

He bit back a gasp as his palm touched cool fabric. 

“How is this possible,?” he whispered and carefully stroked Sherlock's leg. 

A shift under his touch and as John looked up, Sherlock's lids fluttered open. 

They looked at each other. Sherlock's eyes were still hazy and unfocused. 

“John.” 

John was speechlessly staring, his mind empty. Only as Sherlock said his name, he shivered and squeezed the other man's leg. 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock uncurled himself from the sofa and stood up. He stretched casually and John watched him, mouth hanging open, not knowing what to say. 

Sherlock started to walk towards the kitchen but before he could reach it, he suddenly stopped and slowly turned around. Every motion was calm and calculated, betraying the blazing wildness in his eyes. 

“What... How... Why...” 

Apparently even an angel needed some time after waking to realise that something was not right. 

He looked so utterly confused that John couldn’t help but laugh. 

This day, the entire situation, just about everything that had happened today … it was just too much for his nerves. 

He dissolved into hysterical giggles, holding his stomach as it started hurting but he couldn’t stop. 

Sherlock was looking at him like he was insane which only made him laugh harder. 

Eventually he was able to calm himself, he took a few shuddery breaths and righted himself. 

“What are you doing here?” John asked just as Sherlock shot the same question at him. 

They kept staring at each other until a smile quirked at the corners of Sherlock's mouth and he visibly relaxed. 

“I live here,” John said softly, leaning back into the cushions, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock. 

He could almost see the wheels in Sherlock's head turning, trying to figure out what had happened. 

“This is were I always wake up when I rest,” he said quietly as he sat down in John's chair by the fireplace. 

“What?” 

Sherlock drew his knees against his chest, slinging his arms around them as he continued.

“You saw it, saw what happens to me, you were there. For some reason this is my resting place. When you leave, I ... you would probably say, 'recharge my batteries',” he made air quotes at the last three words,”I... lose consciousness and I wake up here. I don't know how or why. All I know is, that it happens. And that I don’t have control over it. I can't initiate it. But when it happens, I end up here. This place... It seems to...” he hesitated again, “I don’t know, to help with the accumulation, I presume. There is some strength in this place, some sort of power that helps me to gather back my abilities.” 

He stopped. Lost in thoughts by the looks of it. 

“At my flat?” John asked, confusion and shock alternating in his chest. 

Sherlock gave him an odd look that John couldn’t read. 

“It used to be my flat,” he whispered, drilling his quicksilver eyes into John's. 

“Pardon. What??” 

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hair with both hands before he looked back at John. 

“This is 221b Baker Street.” 

It wasn’t a question, just a plain fact. John nodded anyway. 

“I used to live here before my death. I recognised it the second I woke here the first time. This is...was my flat. I.. it was comforting, I suppose...” 

“Wait a second...” John interrupted and jumped off of the sofa. 

“You said you can't leave the station and yet you come here whenever you rest, right?” 

Sherlock's eyes were following him as he paced back and forth, nervous energy running through his veins. 

“I cannot control it. I cannot leave the station on my own account, I cannot get past the entrances and I cannot control when I go here. It just happens. Sometimes, when I don’t need to rest, I don’t come here. Weekends, for instance. We don’t meet then so I don’t need to rest.” 

He looked around, curiously taking in all of John's possessions. 

“It looks different now. This is the first time I see that somebody else,” his eyes flickered toward John for a moment, “lives here. Normally it looks exactly like the place I lived in. Otherwise I would have known that it is not my flat any more.” He slung his arms tighter around his knees. 

John groaned and ran a hand through his hair, never stopped pacing. 

“This is bonkers,” he mumbled to himself. 

Silence fell, only the distant sound of cars passing by was to be heard. 

Eventually Sherlock broke the silence, startling John a little. 

“Actually,” he said, sounding a lot more like his usual self, “it makes sense.” 

John stopped mid step. 

“Huh?” 

Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and with two strides he stood before John, smiling at him. 

“You.” 

John shook his head; he still didn’t understand. 

Sherlock laid a hand on his cheek and John immediately leaned into the cool touch. 

They smiled at each other and for a moment it was just them, getting lost in one-another's eyes. 

“You, John Watson, are the key to this,” Sherlock said, his fingertips curling around the side of John's face, his touch setting John's nerves on fire. 

“You live in the one and only place I ever called home. I suppose, there is still some of my ... my spirit in here to effect you and vice versa. Today is the first time I see it as your place, not mine. I suppose because we are both here. I also assume that is why you were able to see me, there must be some sort of connection...” 

He wanted to continue his explanation as John stood up and laid a finger on his lips. 

“Would you shut up for a minute?” 

He did. 

John smiled and let his finger trail those plush lips, closing his eyes to revel in the touch. 

Everything on Sherlock was cool – not cold, just chilled like an inviting drink on a hot summer's day – but his mouth was warm. Warm and soft and inviting, and then John didn’t care any more. 

Didn’t care why or how they were here. 

Didn’t care what Sherlock was, just that he was right there: standing in front of him, their foreheads touching, Sherlock's gorgeous hands resting on his hips, his thumb sliding under John's jumper, caressing his heated skin. 

John groaned and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock's head, crushing their mouths together. 

He drowned in the heat of the kiss, everything was Sherlock, breath, scent, touch. 

He clung to the other man as if he would escape if he ever let go. 

Sherlock moaned against his mouth and deepened the kiss. 

John's blood was singing, his heart hammering in his chest, every cell of his body wanted to melt into the other man, wanted to devour him from the inside. 

He let one hand slide over Sherlock's neck and down his chest, fumbling blindly with the buttons of his shirt. 

Sherlock broke the kiss and leaned back. 

John was panting heavily, he was dizzy but as Sherlock's hand lifted his head he met his eyes willingly. 

They were black, his pupils blown wide, surrounded only by a thin ring of silver; he was breathtakingly beautiful like this. His hair a lovely disarray, his cheeks with the faintest splash of colour and his lips parted and shimmering wet in the light of the flat. 

“Christ,” John's breath caught at the sight. 

“John...” 

John shook his head and kissed Sherlock again. 

“No more talking,” he mumbled against his lips, “I've been dreaming of this for far too long...”

Sherlock smirked but as John removed the scarf that was still around his neck and slowly pushed the coat off of Sherlock's shoulders, the smirk faded. 

He stood still as John opened the last buttons of his shirt. His hands were trembling only the tiniest bit as he splayed them out over alabaster skin. 

“So gorgeous,” he muttered as he caressed Sherlock's skin, mapping every inch with his hands, losing himself in the motion. 

Sherlock's hands on the hem of his jumper startled him but he quickly helped him to remove it. 

Bare-chested they stood in the middle of the sitting room, drinking in the sight of the other one, hands never leaving one-another. 

“Bedroom,” John uttered, grabbing Sherlock's hand, pulling him along. 

Sherlock followed quietly. 

John closed the door behind them and leaned heavily against it. 

He watched Sherlock who was looking around attentively before he turned back to John. 

“This was my bedroom, too.” 

John smiled and motioned for him to come over. 

As soon as Sherlock was close enough John reached up and dug his hands into the taller man's hair again, pulling him down into a searing kiss that left them both flustered. 

“We don’t need those, do we?” he whispered, slipping his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. 

“No.” 

With shaking fingers John opened belt, button and zip and just let the garment drop to the floor before he did the same with his own. 

They toed of shoes and socks, neither of them saying a word. 

John let his eyes roam over the wide expanse of marble skin, which was almost glowing in its paleness. 

“You...Christ...you are absolutely stunning,” John swallowed hard as a thought chased through his brain. 

“Uhm... would you... I mean... can you...” he blushed as he tried to put in words what just had crossed his mind. 

Sherlock's gaze sharpened as he eyed John cautiously and then his eyebrows shot up as he understood. 

“Are you sure?” he asked sharply. 

John nodded. 

“Please?” 

Sherlock studied his face thoroughly and John felt vulnerable: as if all his secrets and hidden thoughts were out in the open, as easy to read as a book. 

They probably were. 

He didn’t mind. Not a bit. 

This was Sherlock, he knew everything about him anyway and this was nothing different. 

Sherlock smiled a bitter-sweet smile at him, that made John's heart splinter a little. 

A soft rustle, the swirl of moving air, the scent of...of... John couldn’t even name it but it quickly became his favourite smell.

The sight before him was breathtaking. 

Naked, apart from tight black pants, all smooth, milky skin, now framed by the immense black wings, was Sherlock. Truly angelic and utterly beautiful. 

The blackness of his wings contrasted gorgeously with his alabaster skin, shadows dancing over the delicate bones, carved out by the light falling through the window. 

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, he stepped closer, searching Sherlock's eyes as he laid a hand on the man's bare chest. 

His eyes flickered to the mass of shimmering feathers but before he could even think of putting the question into words, Sherlock pre-empted him. 

“Yes.” 

John smiled and pressed a kiss onto Sherlock chest before he stepped around him. 

He slowly reached out and let a fingertip slide over inky darkness. 

Sherlock sighed. 

“Oh.” 

John pulled his hand away. Sherlock shook his head and John reached back out, now caressing a bit more boldly. 

Sherlock hummed deep in his throat and the sound echoed through the room, chasing a shiver down John's spine. 

He spread his fingers to cover as much as he could; the feathers were silky and cool, so black they seemed to shimmer blue'ish against John's light skin.

They felt alive, quivering under his touch, and as he experimentally took his hand away, the tips fluttered after it. He laughed lowly and delicately ran his fingers along them again. 

“John...I...” 

Sherlock's voice broke and as John peered around the wings he saw Sherlock biting his lip, his hands clenching hard on his sides. 

For a second John thought he had hurt him but then he realised that wasn’t exactly right. 

He grinned and slid his hand deliberately through some of the feather and Sherlock let out a soft cry. 

“Ahh,” John said, and did it again. 

Sherlock was shaking now, moaning every time John caressed the feathers which now fluttered rather heavily under John's hand. 

John kept teasing them, alternating a gentle caress with the scratch of his nails, feeling himself harden at the rough moans now constantly falling from Sherlock lips. 

A particular loud groan had John look up and before his brain could catch up, he was shoved against a wall, the heavy weight of Sherlock pressing against him, his mouth on his. 

The kiss was fierce and relentless, all teeth and tongue, a wild burning fire, all devouring, and yet it wasn’t enough. 

John searched for a hold as Sherlock ravished his entire body with the kiss; he dug his fingers deep into Sherlock's hips as he pulled him closer, his cool skin a harsh contrast against his own hot limbs. 

Sherlock was keening deep in his throat, biting John's lip, rubbing against him and it drove him mad. 

He slipped his hands under the fabric of Sherlock's pants, growling at the contact. 

“John...please...” 

Sherlock's voice was so deep, John felt it rumbling through his chest, vibrating over his skin, fuelling his need, his want. 

He inhaled sharply as Sherlock's hands tugged at the waistband of his pants and with a low curse John pushed them down, freeing his aching erection.

“You too,” he murmured, watching breathlessly as Sherlock shoved down his pants as well. 

He was just as hard as John, and he arched into John's touch as he trailed a finger over Sherlock's shaft. 

John growled and threw himself against Sherlock, kissing and biting and licking, hands restlessly running over endless skin, clinging to him, as if trying to crawl into him. 

Shakily he pressed his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, nibbling at the soft skin there while one hand travelled down again, gently closing around hot hardness. 

He gave an experimental stroke and Sherlock almost collapsed against him, moaning loudly. 

The thought of getting him in bed crossed John's mind briefly but that would have meant moving and that was the last thing he wanted to do. 

He felt Sherlock shaking rather heavily. 

He wound one arm around the man's waist and flung them both around, now pressing Sherlock against the wall. 

John whined desperately as he looked at Sherlock: pinned against the wall, his wings spread wide, the tips jerking like a trapped animal and yet the enthralled look on Sherlock's face spoke a completely different language. 

His head had fallen back, baring that long throat, submitting to John, entirely and completely, and John took advantage of it. 

He leaned forward, brushing his lips over the vein, standing out so visibly against the alabaster skin, carefully scraping his teeth over it, sucking at it. 

He tightened his grip around Sherlock's erection, and smirked as he pressed harder into John, a low growl rumbling in his chest. 

John started stroking a bit faster, never taking his eyes off Sherlock's face who was trashing against the wall, his eyes screwed shut. 

Suddenly John couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, “look at me.” 

Sherlock shook his head, his hips involuntarily bucking into John's hand on him. 

“No, Sherlock, please... you have to look at me... I need to see you.” John urged quietly, slowing his strokes to make a point. 

Sherlock blinked at him, his head lolling against the hard surface in his back. 

John gasped; Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, his irises a tiny shimmer of silver around them. 

He could get lost in them - he couldn’t look away, even saw himself in the depth of the darkness. 

“Look at me,” he groaned as he sped up his strokes. He was barely blinking, forcing Sherlock to hold his gaze. 

Sweat ran down his spine and every muscle in his body was taut like a string. 

He hardly noticed it though. His entire focus was on Sherlock's eyes, on every gasp and moan the man made.

And then Sherlock froze, his body stiffened and he let out such a loud groan it rippled through John's body like something physical. 

Hotness spilled over his hand, slicking his motions while Sherlock shuddered violently, the most ecstatic noises falling from his lips. 

Sherlock's eyes were still wide open but glazed over and at first John thought he was imagining the golden shimmer in them. 

The longer he stared the more visible it became: 

Sherlock's irises, usually clear and bright had started glowing golden, amber and liquid, surrounding the black of his pupils like sunshine. 

John felt Sherlock's large, shaking hands close around his waist, pulling him closer until he was pressed flush against him. 

“Feel it,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. 

Warmth filled John's stomach, quickly spreading throughout his entire body, filling every cell with a fiery sensation that stole his breath. 

And then an incredible heat rushed through his veins. His spine tingled, waves of pleasure shook him to his core. 

He saw blurred shadows moving around him, felt feathers brush against his back and then everything vanished as the most powerful orgasm he had ever had overwhelmed him. 

His head fell back, his knees gave out, every muscle in his body loosened and Sherlock held him tight as he cried out. 

He came hard and heavy between their bodies, blood rushed loudly in his ears and even through closed eyes he saw the golden light, cocooning them both now, felt it warm on his over-sensitive skin. 

A loud sound filled his ears, and it took a moment to realise that it was him, keening loudly. 

He tried to stop it but with the ecstasy still cursing through his veins he wasn’t able to. 

Sherlock's mouth on his, kissing him gently eventually made him stop although there were still soft moans tumbling from his swollen lips. 

Eventually he could breathe again, could control his body again and he tried to stand up but his knees were still a bit wobbly. 

“Come here,” Sherlock murmured and half pulled, half carried him towards the bed. 

In a heap of limps they fell on it, arms and legs tangled together, not bothering to sort what belonged to whom. 

John's vision was hazy and he could have sworn the room was spinning but Sherlock murmured soothingly against his temple,so he concentrated on that instead. 

“What the bloody hell was that??” he asked after a few minutes of silence. 

“You felt what I was feeling. Combined with your own pleasure... I admit, I might have underestimated the, well … the effect it would have on you. I have never tried it like this before...” 

Sherlock's voice faltered a little what made John smile. 

He lazily turned his head and blindly found Sherlock's mouth to press a soft kiss on it. 

“It was incredible.” 

Sherlock smiled into the kiss and curled closer around John. 

One finger trailed idly over his stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

It felt wonderful and John almost purred as Sherlock nuzzled his neck, humming lowly against his skin. He was sated, warm, and happily drifting off to sleep as a thought flashed through his hazy mind. 

“Will you be gone, when I wake up?” 

Sherlock's arms closed tighter around him and he kissed John's temple. 

“I don’t know.” 

The words were quiet and John heard a hint of bitterness in them. 

“But you know where to find me...” 

John smiled sleepily and lifted a heavy hand to stroke Sherlock's tousled curls. 

“Yes, I do.” 

He caught Sherlock's hand, laced their fingers together and pressed them over his – now steadily beating – heart. 

“I always do,” he murmured as he eventually allowed sleep to take over. 

***

The soft glow, illuminating the room, was dim, barely there and yet it seemed blindingly bright to Sherlock's eyes. He clung to John, willed himself to stay but as always it didn’t work like that. 

Hoping this wasn’t the last time he saw the smaller man, Sherlock pressed another kiss against John's temple before he carefully detangled his own hand from John's tight grip. 

Devastated he watched the edges of his vision go blurry. The room slowly dissolved into blackness. He never took his eyes off John's sleeping form, even when it became more and more transparent. 

“Goodbye, John” he whispered, running a shining hand over John's neck and shoulder before darkness took over and with a sigh, Sherlock let go. 

Soon he was gone, leaving behind a darkening room and a single feather, floating in the air.

 

 


End file.
